Writing on the wall

Yesterday I went to my neighborhood gas station after work. I go to this place because it's near my house -- clearly it isn't for the customer service. The people who work there hardly greet you, and they never say "thank you." I'm all about convenience, so I'm willing to put up with the rudeness. (And really, it's better than going to the gas station where the cashier constantly tries to convince me that I cannot make my purchase unless I look at the security camera and do some dance for it)

So I was in line behind a very small, old man who was naturally wheeling around his portable oxygen tank. I love old people, and I thought it was extra awesome that this specific old person was purchasing a six-pack of Miller Lite. A man after my own heart. So perhaps it was because of that man that when the cashier (who, holy shit, said hello to me) asked if I wanted to contribute $1 to the Muscular Dystrophy Association, I said, "If there's enough left over from this 5 dollar bill." Long story short, I had to dig around in my purse to find another 31 cents, but now my name is scrawled on an MDA shamrock or whatever, and is clearly displayed in the window of a gas station! I guess it's better than the bathroom wall.

SWEET: It's a three-day weekend! God bless America and corporations.

SOUR: Many people have also taken today off. This is constantly thrown in my face via the out-of-office e-mails that are flooding my inbox.

SOUR: The man whose office is always stocked with candy -- we're talking the good shit: KitKats, Reese's Cups, etc. -- is not here. And his office is locked. I know because I tried to break in.

More later.